One For Sorrow
by s2lou
Summary: Once down the short, lightless flight of steps, the place feels like polish wax and Charleston and jazz, the scent of cheap, illegal liquor. KaitoAoko. AU.
1. One For Sorrow

A/N: Back to another chapter story, ladies and gents. It'll be shortish–ten chapters at most–but I'm still hesitating about the update basis. Two weeks? Three? I guess it'll depend on how fast my researches are on that other chaptered ShinRan mystery story I've got in store.

**So yeah. AU, again (I'm doing a lot of these lately, ain't I?). Spacetime location–San Francisco (I like the sound, is all)–The early Twenties. I like this era. Twenties slang is hilarious. Speaking of which, English not being my first language, I'm not quite certain whether or not some of these expressions are still used nowadays–and there are some that are vintage Twenties. I'll make a footnote of most of them.**

**Chappie dedicated to ****ami-chan****, for her wonderful, kick-ass review in Faint Glimmerings. I believe I've never seen such a long review. –glomps– and loads of thanks and cookies to all the wonderful people who reviewed Lawyer's Problem (so long) and Faint Glimmerings. Waking up to you on Christmas morning was a treat.**

Disclaimer–The DC/MK cast is all Gosho Aoyama's. I own nothin'.

_**-o-**_

**One For Sorrow**

**-**_**o-**_

_One, two, three, four._

_The partners move, shifts and changes, legs and arms sweeping, quickening pace. The Charleston._

_The music hasn't started yet._

_The partners change, closed position, hand clasped to hand, palm to palm, shoulder to shoulder. The movements are slow and breezy, a promise of stealth with them. Eight times, a pause, a stop. Change partners. Eight times, a pause, a stop._

_The partners change–again–hand on back, shoulderblade, shoulder, biceps, chest. Left foot back, right foot up–one, two­–left foot up, right foot back–three, four. Right foot up, left foot back–five, six–right foot back, left foot up–seven, eight._

_The partners change, stand up, repeat the basic steps–one and two and three and four–hand clasped to hand, palm to palm, five and six, seven and eight. One step up, one step back, shifting weight, one step back, one step up._

_The basic step repeats, a slow-building motion as the partners move, deft and skilled. One, two. Skip. Three, four. Turn. Five, six. Change. Seven, eight._

_Two open their eyes, blue to blue, black to black, full-blowing grin to suspicious stare. Full stop. _

_-o-_

January 1st

Once inside, down the short, lightless flight of steps, the place feels like polish wax and Charleston and jazz, the scent of cheap, illegal liquor. Workmen. A few couples. It is not crowded, the sound of voices agreeably hushed down to a nearly-whisper by the playing band on the estrada, lights subdued just so subtly, ever so innocuously.

It has been a good day. The bar has sold properly from as early as six o'clock. Lunchtime has brought in a fair portion of the hands who started hammering on the clock tower two blocks down, and a few late New Year partygoers have started reiterating last night's festivities all over again in a well-provided corner. This is not the lush, richly-furnished, alcohol-permitted downtown clubs, but it certainly isn't a speakeasy, either, and it's decent enough for two girls to come alone and order drinks and avoid any disturbance.

"Alright," Aoko says, and takes off her wintercoat, tugging on her knee-length skirt's rim to sit after a beaming, old gentleman has shown them to a slim, brown-wooded table. "Tell me the worst. You're pregnant."

"What? No." Akako huffs and lights a cigarette, but doesn't lift it to her red-painted lips.

"You're going up the middle aisle without telling me. Or making me a bridesmaid. Or even a witness. Akako-chan, I'm shocked."

"Don't be ridiculous."

"Should I be?" Aoko asks mildly, and is answered to by a toss of Akako's elegantly bobbed hair. This time she does raise her cigarette, the butt of which reddening to match her lipstick and nails. Aoko grins slyly at her.

"You drag me out of my lodgings and all the way to _here_, which by the way is so obviously not one of your usual places, and sulk all through the tram trip, and it's just supposed to be a drinking outing between friends on New Year's day."

Akako glares at her. "So?"

"Well, I don't drink, Holmes."

She crosses her arms, fingers holding the cigarette waving it in a semblance of flappery flippancy. "It doesn't matter. Never mind. He's not even here–" and Aoko directly inches closer, teeth baring delightedly, rather in the manner of cats.

"He. You brought me here for a _guy?"_ She ignores Akako's indignant spluttering and continues steadily on– "Well. Well, well, well–Nakamichi is _not_ going to be pleased–what kind of sheik could have caught your eye?"

"He's a sap," Akako exhales as she speaks, but even through the thin veil of grey smoke Aoko sees her turned cheek tinged with faint red.

She ignores that, too, and props her chin atop her hands, grinning. "When did you meet him?"

"On Christmas Eve, if you _must_ know," Akako snaps, glaring some more. "He gave the card of this place, said he worked there, asked if I'd come. Dumb. Of course I had other business to care about than to–"

"–come here hardly a week after he's asked you in," Aoko completes sententiously.

"–he's not even here anyway," Akako goes on unheedingly, "oh gods yes he is." She takes in a deep, nicotine-flavoured breath and very pointedly does not look at the bar. Aoko peers at it interestedly.

"There're two of them," she observes. "One dark one blond. Which?"

"Blond," Akako hisses through her teeth.

An interesting little inspection-filled pause ensues. "… you could have chosen worse," is the final verdict. "He's cute. Ish. In a Brit kind of way. He's watching you, you know." He is, very much so, and his dark-haired friend is laughing his head off.

Akako shrugs, stubs out her cigarette, and lights another. Aoko scowls at her. "You shouldn't smoke so mu–"

The kind, beaming old gentleman sweeps back, forwards, and asks if they like to order anything. Akako demands a brandy and salad.

"Fruit juice for me," Aoko says, and waits for the inevitable laughter and teasing, but the old waiter simply smiles a little wryly and says, Yes, of course; What kind of juice should the young lady want? "Uh. Grape?"

With a comical little bow he writes it seriously down and sweeps briskly away, back in the general direction of the bar and its two bartenders, one fair one dark.

Akako is silent and smoking. The bar is filing. The band is playing more enthusiastically now, fine, rough jazz bouncing on the underground walls and filling the room with gold-touched notes, the trumpet and the saxophone. A few couples have begun to dance, a frantic fox-trot all sweeping hands and legs and quickening pace.

Aoko watches, idly, the blond bartender. He is cute in his own peculiar way, and it's really no surprise Akako should be interested–he's just her type if anything. He looks like a darb, though. Too serious. Akako is the early flapper, bobbed hair and shirt skirt and lots of make-up–even though she's long past nineteen now she certainly isn't looking into matrimony. She has hinted, once or twice, that it might be nice finding some wealthy old bird to rely upon, but an out-of-money bartender can scarcely fit the picture.

The dark-haired bartender disentangles himself from the crowd and saunters close–he's looked lanky from afar, but he's lean and tall really, in those black clothes–his eyes, as he stops by, are blue and amused.

"'Evening!" is his bright greeting. "I've got a, let me see, brandy and salad for one of you–" his eyes flick to Akako, who limply exhales a thin plume of smoke and inclines her head in a Red Queen fashion, "–there's a note from that friend of mine under the glass if you care to read it. Grape juice?"

There is laughter in his voice and laughter lines at the corner of his mouth.

"I don't drink alcohol," Aoko says testily, while he sets the glass down. She takes the straw he hands her and pinches at the paper to tear it. In front of her, Akako is doing a great job of staring thin-lipped at the neatly-folded note, as though wondering whether or not she should burn a hole into it with her cigarette end.

"Good for you," the bartender remarks. "Much as could be expected from a bull's daughter."

Aoko blinks. "You–"

He just smiles.

_-o-_

From there the conversation naturally escalates from Aoko's father to Aoko's father's work to Aoko's father's troubles with said work and said daughter.

"You see," Aoko explains, blowing listlessly in her straw, "I perfectly understands that he needs to boss around to Force to catch those bootleggers, but that doesn't mean he has to boss everybody else around, too. Doesn't mean he has to boss _me_ around, too."

"The proper woman talk again?" says Akako dispassionately as she picks her way through her salad.

"Yeah. He's frustrated because he can't do anything about the bootleg system, and so he comes homes and decides to take it out on _me_. He _knows_ what my position about this all is, but he just. Won't. Listen. He paces the room to and fro and makes disobliging remarks about my manner of living and my code of dress–"

"My dear girl, that's what dappers are for," Akako shoots in. "He should be glad you don't smoke. Or drink."

"Or go to nightclubs," Aoko says drily. "Yes, he should be, shouldn't he? He's seeing too many flappers while he's touring the juice joints, and he thinks I'm becoming one of them. He hates 'em. Thinks they're all molls."

"Yeah? He hasn't managed to do anything about the bootleg circuit, then?"

"No… he's arresting minor slip-ups, but he can't get through to the head. The thing is, when one of their dispensers is getting too closely spied upon by the police, they sever all ties, and there always are more ready to do the job. It's a spider's work. Threads, threads, threads."

"I always thought Prohibition was getting a tad bit too far."

"It's not that. My dad's simply obsessed with work. He won't get any rest 'till he catches them all, and I doubt they'll ever allow him to. You should be more careful, by the way. The Nakimichi crowd–Dad says they're on the fire line now."

"I'm not a gangster's girl," Akako observes direly.

"I know you're not. You're a bartender's girl. What did the note say?"

(Akako has finally read it, flushed, and tucked it away without a word.) "Nothing of importance. He says he hopes I'll find the food to my convenience. I just asked for a salad, and look–since when are there chicken bits in simple bars' salads?"

"He likes you."

"Well, I do not and that's flat." She furiously impales two lettuce leaves.

The blond bartender, eventually, gathers his guts and comes forwards to ask her to dance. Akako needs little convincing–an under-table kick in the shins does the trick pretty well–and lets herself be led away onto the middle of the floor.

The trumpet chooses that moment to strike one single, silver note. Aoko laughs.

"Cuties, aren't they?" the dark-haired bartender asks behind her, as he comes up with a tray. "Done with your drink?"

Aoko wordlessly hands him her glass.

"He's gone completely soft about her, you know," he prattles on, piling up plates from adjacent tables. "He came back a week ago saying he'd found the love of his live at the other of a dead soldier. I thought he was lit. He wasn't, though. Looks like she asked him for a drink."

"She's keen on him, too," Aoko says. "Usually she's completely shameless about guys, but here she won't even admit she likes him. That usually means she's serious."

"Happened often before?"

"It did once. We were fifteen."

"Looks like Hakuba's chances are high."

She eyes him warily. "And how you reached that conclusion I don't want to know." She takes him in, vague eyes, vague grin, vague poise of the hands at the back of Akako's empty chair. "You're jazzed, aren't you?"

"What? Oh, yes. Absolutely spifflicated. Every night in my life." He grins, and warmth spreads through her chest. The grin is–looks–genuine, lopsided in a happy-go-lucky way. The blue eyes are half-lidded–with amusement or alcohol, she doesn't know, but she doesn't quite like it.

"I'll have another grape juice, thanks," she says pointedly. "And no cherry liquor misleading its way past my glass, if possible."

"Sure," he says, but doesn't move right away. He stands where he is with his hands on the back of the chair, watches Akako and Hakuba dance the fox-trot, and listens to the jazz.

_-o-_

When Akako comes back she looks flustered and red, and insists they go home immediately. Aoko is surprised. The evening hasn't even begun. She hasn't danced yet. Surely that Hakuba person would want to dance with Akako-chan again. And she hasn't finished her fruit juice–

"Screw the fruit juice," Akako says, with more emphasis than usual in her curse. "I'm leaving anyway." She sweeps up her coat and strides briskly away, while Aoko rolls her eyes and gets out coins from her purse before she follows her.

"You owe me a brandy and salad's worth," she reminds her, catching up.

"I'll get you a present for Christmas."

"That was a week ago."

"I don't care. Aoko, let's just get out of here," and Aoko laughs and links her arm through her friend's, and says, Let's. "Goodnight, goodnight," she calls, as they pass the counter and the old gentleman, and the dark-haired bartender.

"It's started snowing," he calls after them, just as they push the door open and start up the steps. "You should take an umbrella."

The wind outside is icy and sweeping, carrying snowflakes that catch in Aoko's hair. "Ah, thank you," she replies, turning back. The young man stands in a rectangle of gold, cutting through the greyish dark of the stairs. "Are you sure this is okay?"

"It's a loan," he says, with another wry smile and a half-hearted shrug. "You'll have to come again to give it back." His fingers, when he passes her the umbrella, are warm and lingering.

San Francisco is snowing and cold. They run all the way up to the tramway station.

_-o-_

_The basic step repeats, a slow-building motion as the partners move, deft and skilled. One, two. Skip. Three, four. Turn. Five, six. Change. Seven, eight._

_Two open their eyes, blue to blue, black to black, full-blowing grin to suspicious stare. Full stop. _

_Then the dance starts again, hand clasped to hand, palm to palm, shoulder to shoulder._

_They don't know each other's name just yet._

_-o-_

_Going up the middle aisle–Getting married._

_Sheik–A man with sex appeal (from the Valentino movies). Feminine equivalent is sheba._

_Sap–Idiot._

_Flapper–The prototype of a flapper (the new twenties girl, who cut her hair, wore knee-length skirts, smoke and drank alcohol) was said to be nineteen-years-old. Akako and Aoko are twenty-three in here._

_Bull–law-enforcement officer or FBI agent._

_Bootleg–Illegal liquor. Includes Giggle Water/Juice, Hair of the Dog, Hooch, Moonshine, Coffin Varnish, among others._

_Juice joint–illicit bar selling bootleg. Also speakeasy, or gin mill._

_Prohibition–in 1920, the manufacture, sale, import and export of alcohol is prohibited in the USA, except for some nightclubs which get special licenses. Speakeasies then pop up everywhere, and the police generally turns a blind eye on them in exchange of money._

_Moll–Gangster's girl._

_Dead soldier–Empty bottle._

_Lit–also spifflicated, canned, corked, tanked, primed, embalmed, owled, scrooched, jazzed, zozzled, plastered, potted, ossified, fried to the hat–drunk._

_(All this lexical comes from The Internet Guide to Jazz Age Slang.)_

_**-o-**_

**I think all the chapters will be about this length. More should come up in two or three weeks–if I'm not overworked. Hopefully I should not, the finals being done and over with, but you never know… stay tuned? x3 –hands over cookies–**

**A Very Happy New Year to you all. Hopefully 2009 will see loads of wonderful fics.**


	2. Two For Joy

**A/N****: … so it was a three-week update in the end. Don't kill. I have had too many things to write (still do), and you will be the recipients of **_**that**_**, dear readers. More KxA AUs x3**

**Many thanks to all the awesome people who reviewed (bear with my love and cookies), and especially to D3athrav3n92 ****and katie-chan, for their data about San Francisco and bootleg. May you be praised, dears.**

**Disclaimer–uh, well. Do I need to? this is **_**fanfiction.**_** The key word being **_**fan.**_

**Lexical at the end. I understand lots of you will know what the words mean already, guys, but we're not all from the US. And no–in a Twenties AU, I could **_**not**_** resist making Kaito play the trumpet. I could **_**not.**_

**-**_**o-**_

**Two For Joy**

**-**_**o-**_

_The dancing starts again, four steps, shift weight, four steps, shift weight, pause, full stop._

_No changing partners anymore._

_Hand clasped to hand, palm to palm, shoulder to shoulder. Closed position, blue to blue, black to black, grin to glare and their eyes wide open. Eight steps, quick and smooth–the pace is picking up, legs and arms swinging, hips swaying, fingers slipping._

_No music yet but the harsh, catering pounding of feet hitting floor, thin heels and polished tap shoes, all meeting parquet at the exact same second, one step up one, one step back two. The breathless laughter of too-fast dancers. Rustling of knee-length, bright skirts swirling around silk stockings._

_It looks a mess from afar, but a well-calculated mess, step after step like slipping layers of satined cloth._

_A little faster. Each couple accelerate in perfect synchronicity, meeting and parting with each step up step back step back up. One, two, turn, twirl, three, four, feet tapping on polished parquet, five, six, seven, eight, like the _tick tock tick tock_ of the clock and the fourth hour to strike._

_One, two, three, four. Hand clasped to hand, palm to palm, shoulder to shoulder. Five, six, seven, eight. Shifting weights. Pause. Full stop. The dancing starts again, slower. One and two and three and–ah–four and five… six and… seven… eight._

_-o-_

_February 7__th_

It snows steadily on all the way through January and early February.

The fifth time Aoko brings the umbrella back the sky has been dark and overcast all day, and the snowflakes are turning rapidly to an icy, angry drizzle. Down the steps, however, are light, and alcoholic warmth, and blaring, shining jazz.

People have fled the cold evening here, and loud, idle chatter, clatter of glasses and bottles almost drown out the band. All the tables are crowded, and at the back of the room Akako sits smoking, only looking up when Aoko takes off her wintercoat and lays it on the back of her chair.

Jii-chan sweeps away, with a promise to bring her orange juice, and Aoko sits down. "Alright. I'm here. What's up?"

Akako exhales darkly. "Nothing's up. Ab-so-lu-te-ly nothing. Not even a _ti_ny little thing. _Nothing._" Tables away, Hakuba is serving drinks to a pair of heavily jewel-clad ladies in furs. Aoko glances back.

"Hasn't he done anything yet?"

"Who? Nothing should be done about anything," Akako says, haughtily. "It's not like it matters to me what that sap should do or not do," she adds, ferociously, paradoxically. "If he likes to hold that torch of his for months, it's no business of mine. I'm not about to sit and wait around." She stubs out her cigarette butt with more furious haste than consideration.

Jii-chan and orange juice come by and Aoko sips wistfully. It is not a good time. February, if anything, is a month for hot java and hard liquor and fast dancing to get warm, not for bickering affairs between two clumsy lovers. Hakuba looks like he will never get a move on, and Akako looks like she won't either if he doesn't first. It may be that they are too proud, too similar to get on well with such unsteady basis–still… it is not a good time.

"Akako-chan…"

"So help me, Aoko, if you say something in the way of We must learn patience, I'll break that glass."

Aoko frowns. "I wasn't going to," she says drily. "Hakuba looks serious about this, and you don't. That's probably why he keeps at bay and is not rubbing it in. Now if you intend, knowing this, to continue the way you always do with guys, it's your own business."

"Undeterred by those sad-puppy looks he gives me whenever he passes?" Akako bursts out, and Aoko doesn't even smile.

"Undeterred by any personal considerations except caring to hurt him as little as possible," she shrugs. "Such relationships as the one he wants cost time and pride. If you're not ready to make such sacrifices, I suggest you give him the icy mitt now."

Akako's dark-brown eyes slide sideways in a glare at the bartender. "He sure looks like he's waiting for that."

"He looks like a man waiting for a breaking dam," Aoko retorts, winding the conversation neatly to a close. Akako is thick-headed, but hopefully not that much as to miss one of the best opportunities she would probably ever get. Hakuba is a good man, and they'd handle each other much better than they'd handle themselves on their own.

A hand touches her elbow. "Aoko, care to dance?"

"I–" With Akako mouthing _Go! Go!_ in the background, she doesn't have much choice. "I didn't know you danced," she says, as Kuroba leads her away through the throng of tables and onto the bare parquet floor.

"I often don't." The saxophone is playing solo now, but it will be soon over, soon. He lays a light hand on her back, pulling her a tad closer.

"You're often drunk." Aoko wrinkles her nose as though against an unpleasant smell, but it isn't really. It smells like cherry liquor. He grins, quite frankly and unfazed this time, and leads her free hand in his. "Now what's the reason for this out-of-date invitation?"

"Does a man need a reason for inviting a woman to dance?"

He dances well, in fact, all smooth, quick moves. She has to go fast to keep up. "A… a bartender does," she replies. "I don't think a man like you would do anything beyond his own interest. You're much too well-mannered to. Are you trying to dizzy me into drinking?" she asks breathlessly, as he swirls round.

"You sound like your father," he snorts. "Besides look."

Aoko glances over his shoulder. Hakuba is now steadily padding through the tables, revolving in circles that narrow slowly around Akako. Ah. She doesn't look too oblivious. "Hard into matchmaking, aren't you?"

"Hakuba needs the help anyway," Kuroba says tartly. "He's a darb, really. He's a good friend and a good colleague, and he's needed to find himself a jane for years. Though I hadn't expected him to fall for a flapper–much as her friends are lovely," he adds gallantly, grinning down. "They'll fit in all right."

"Yeah?" Aoko is doing her best to look dubious. "So you know Akako needs someone like him, too?"

"Yup." Amusement in dancing in his eyes, and she _really_ can't resist.

"–and what kind of person do _I_ need?"

"Hmm," he says. "I wonder," and then spins her round and round, clutches her hand and waist as he launches them both in a series of Charleston acrobatics that has them both breathless and laughing to the music.

_-o-_

"You on the lam?" she asks him later, perched on one of the bar's high stools and watching as he presses another orange for her.

He nearly drops it, and recovers it so fast Aoko thinks he planned that. "Goodness, no," he says, laughing. "I couldn't own this place and run it if I had the fuzz on my heels, now could I?" He can't. He looks at her questionably. "Where did you get the idea?"

"Well," she shrugs. "Dunno. But Hakuba-kun said you hardly ever leave the bar, and you know my father–"

"And so you logically concluded I'm a wanted criminal."

"It was a random idea," she protests. "You sure have the brains to be a thief or something. A bootlegger."

"_Thank _you," he says, amusedly. "For the compliment." He slides the glass neatly forwards, on the polished counter, and lets his lean fingers curl around the foot one second before he pushes back. "So your reasoning is, I'm the actual head of the whole bootleg system thing. And I'm directing it all. From this small, petty bar."

"You could be."

"… I'm not. But your father thinks I might just be," he says pointedly. "He raids the place every six months and goes through my stash and scares all my costumers away –thinks I'm hiding hooch or hair of the dog or whatever. He even sent private tecs to ask me same as any other costumer." He grins, in a lopsided sort of way that makes her shiver uncomfortably.

"You don't keep in giggle juice, then," she asks, sipping her sweet drink.

"I am _not_ a criminal," Kuroba says, with a twitch at the corner of his long mouth, wryness in his eyes.

_-o-_

_February 14__th_

"Good even­–Goodness, what's with the ritzy atmosphere?" Aoko asks, handing Jii-chan the umbrella.

The bar's lights are subdued to almost-dark, and the band is playing slow and sensual. "Kaito-san has decided yesterday we need to celebrate Valentines' Day," the old gentleman says, as though it is a Very Deplorable Thing. (Knowing Kuroba, it probably is.) "He… insisted on this kind of atmosphere."

"The roses also?" Akako says, fingers brushing against a corolla.

Jii-chan's shoulders hunch just so, and from afar, Aoko glimpses Kuroba laughing.

"Was it necessary to freak out the poor old man?" she asks him later, when he brings their order to their table. He is wearing a white, neatly-pressed shirt and black bowtie, nothing at all like his usual dark, messy garments.

"Oh, Jii-chan's a dear old bird," he says, smoothly, carelessly. "But he's from another century altogether–overage in the war and everything–though he went anyway, if only to keep track on my father–so he were a bit shocked when I took up the bar after my dad and let in a band and flappers started to come in," with an amicable nod in Akako's direction. "He's accustomed himself nicely now, but this kind of schemes still frosts him up a little."

"Which is why you're dolled up like a penguin," Akako says, with a jab of her cigarette.

"Nah–that's to preserve Jii-chan's feelings." He flings an immaculate cloth over his arms and clacks his heels, with a short, waiter-man bow. "Besides it fits in with the fun. Valentines' Day is nice enough for roses and chocolates–"

"Of course St Valentine was a roman martyr–"

"Don't be a killjoy, Aoko-chaaaaan," he whines, and slides a rose behind her ear before he skips off.

Sly dog, she thinks, watching him bustle away with Hakuba and trays and tinkling glasses and a reprobating-looking Jii-chan. What else has he planned? Champagne and slow, lazy dancing, enticing perfumes and liquors like oriental incenses…

It might work, she thinks bluntly. It might work, if Hakuba got a wriggle on and Akako stopped being a stubborn ass. "Maybe," she starts, "maybe you could–"

Everybody hushes.

The trumpet plays, solo, slow and low. The jazz ripples away on air as on water, moving like a nearly-still river, running deep, deep into unknown, dragging with it long waves and streams, beautiful and a dark, dark gold. The bar is shaded enough that the few lights, under the pale green domes, are flickering gently. Even the dancers have stopped, silent and together, fingers intertwined–still shadows on the parquet dancefloor.

It is, above all, peaceful. The frantic rush of daylight and bustling town has gone, dismissed and drowned out in low-moving, mellow tones, each steady, quivering into another, swathed in a tune that talks of falling snow like thick velvet, and a few too many winter nights.

"I didn't know Kuroba played the trumpet so well," Akako murmurs, lifting her sherry to her lips in a way that make the glass facets shiver with light.

"I didn't know he played the trumpet at all."

They are silent until the dancing begins again, and Hakuba comes forwards. "Akako-san. I'd be delighted if you honoured me into a waltz." (His voice is smooth like fine wine, as though weaving a long, long thread and knowing exactly where and through which circumvolutions it leads.)

Aoko, in response, wordlessly lights another cigarette with her previous one's butt and stares with resolute stubbornness in her swaying sherry. Hakuba's eyes narrow, but he turns to Aoko instead. "Aoko-san, would you do me the honour?"

"I–of course."

She intercepts Akako's red glare as she stands, and shrugs at her, walking away with her hand atop Hakuba's.

"You should have insisted," she hisses later, fumbling over her steps. "She was expecting you to. She would have given in in the end."

"I don't think you have a say in my manner of courting your friend, Aoko-san. You saw her, besides," he says coolly. "She would not budge. Let her. I can enjoy your company better," he is more severe, more confident than she has expected from him–but his gold eyes dart rapidly to Akako's table with more eloquence than his words speak.

"I _think_ I know her better," Aoko says, snappily. "If you're thinking of wooing her by tiring her out, my advice is, don't."

"I will _not_ force myself upon her," he says, tongue as sharp and quick-witted as hers.

A sudden spin on her heels dizzy her for a short, rather blurred second, and she grasps blindly for focus and footage before she recovers enough to say, more slowly and cautiously– "I'm not telling you to. But you have to make it _clear_ it's her you're stuck on–not me, not anybody else. If she's your interest, _show _her. She won't believe you otherwise–"

"If after two months of this she doesn't see it's her I'm interested in, she's a greater simpleton than I took her for," and there's a second of hazy panic before he adds, more slowly and gently, "I'll make it clearer next time."

She opens her mouth to say something, then–what, she's not exactly sure–but the trumpet strikes a loud quicksilver note and the band takes it up, stretches it and goes blaring on in a precipitate fox-trot that has them both stumbling out of the floor.

"I see you're having fun," Kuroba calls out at her, and she detours by the bar counter, swaying between the high stools to finally prop herself atop one.

"I see you're lit," she says, as he grins at her and slides a crimson-filled glass towards her. "What's that? Blood?"

He rolls his eyes. "No. Just drink it. There's no alcohol in there," he tinkles the glass spoon on the brim, earning a light note, and sets it neatly on the saucer. "And it's a beautiful night to be lit on–all the couples and love." He gestures in the general direction of the dancers, not looking at them. "Did I give you a rose, by the way?"

"You did. Wait–" her pale hands lift in the air, waving aimlessly between the thin black strands, "­–aah–I must have lost it while I was dancing."

"I saw you." He pulls another flower out of nowhere and reaches out to slide it behind her ear again. "Both of you."

"We were talking Akako-chan all the time," she protests, defensively, and then wonders _why._ It's not like she can't dance with Hakuba-kun, is it? Kuroba lets her paddle on for a minute, then gives a grin and a yes-I-know nod, and pushes the glass a little down the counter.

"I suppose you were. Drink."

She scowls at him for form's sake, but takes a cautious sip. It tastes like cherries and cranberries, sweetly bitter. "… it's good."

"Of course it's good. I made it myself," he says, and reaches out again to brush his knuckles against the rose's petals, a lock of dark hair, a cheekbone. "The rose was drooping," he explains, grin softening. "Happy Valentines' Day," then leans over the counter, leans way _in_. He tastes like cherry liquor.

_-o-_

_One, two, three, four. Hand clasped to hand, palm to palm, shoulder to shoulder. Five, six, seven, eight. Shifting weights. Pause. Full stop. The dancing starts again, slower. One and two and three and–ah–four and five… six and… seven… eight._

_Hush, now._

_The music is starting._

_-o-_

_Java–coffee._

_Give someone the icy mitt–Reject them._

_Darb–a reliable person or thing._

_Jane–a girlfriend._

_To be on the lam–To be on the run._

_The fuzz–the police._

_Hooch, Hair of the dog, Giggle juice–various names of bootleg._

_Ritzy–Elegant (from the hotel the Ritz, y'know? In Paris?)_

_Dolled up–dressed up._

_Lit–also spifflicated, canned, corked, tanked, primed, embalmed, owled, scrooched, jazzed, zozzled, plastered, potted, ossified, fried to the hat and probably tons of others–drunk._

_(All this lexical comes from The Internet Guide to Jazz Age Slang.)_

_-o-_

**This Is Not Going To Be Slow Paced. Obviously. While the first half of the fic will be rather light and fluffy, however, it'll get darker in the second. Do not fret. Damn it! Stop fretting! (xD sorry. Just wanted to say that. –gets bricked–)**

**Don't hesitate, anyone who lives in the US and/or notices mistakes or thinks I might use the data–just lemme know. (It's pretty interesting knowing people from all over the world might be reading this. Seriously, where are you all from? –is thereby shot for sheer curiosity-)**

**Cookies, anyone? Take 'em.**


	3. Three For A Girl

**A/N: Okay, so. I have no excuses. (Except Opus and My Funny Valentine and a massive AU project, really, no excuses.) I'm terribly late and I apologize… I'll update earlier next time to make up to it, promise. In the meantime, I hope you'll enjoy this. –bows–**

**Disclaimer–I own nothing. Obviously.**

**-**

**Three For A Girl**

**-**

_The music is starting._

_Picture to yourself the slow, sweet tunes of jazz, picture to yourself the dark enticement of black chocolate. Picture the trumpet and the violin, both instruments fast apart and wholly matching in what should be perfect, but isn't._

_The Charleston fits with this flawed perfection, and accompanies the flow, running deep and slow, and then speeding up with the quick-stepped print of heels and taps on the polished parquet floor. It is fast and going faster still, and it fits with the alcoholic fury of the evening._

_Partners face each other much quicker now, and never change anymore–hand clasped to hand, palm to palm, shoulder to shoulder. One and two and three and four, and each time the trumpet plays faster and faster five and six and seven and eight, repeat the basic steps, one up one back one up._

_Breathless laughs in the never-still room, breathless gaps in the space between the dancers. Skirts flare with flourish and bobbed hair bobs as hips swing and sway. Legs tangle and untangle, forever a fragile equilibrium none of them completely masters._

_The jazz plays over them, a black cloak of winter and night falling onto their shoulders. The alcohol splays in their chests, elation and falling-down all in one piece that shapes around the heart. One step up two steps back and three and four and five and six._

_-o-_

_March 4__th_

"I don't think it's a good idea," Aoko says.

"It's not," Kaito agrees. "But then who cares?"

The radio crackles darkly.

"Well, anyway, it's not like we can do anything about it," Hakuba says, sitting back in his chair and running a thoughtful hand in his blond strands, casting a wary look in Akako's direction. She is chainsmoking, and does not return it.

"No, but really," Kaito insists. "Prohibition was meant to slow down alcoholic consummation, but so far it's only managed to do the contrary." He waggles the shaker violently and pours out drinks for Hakuba and himself.

"It's not like they're not trying to prevent it," Aoko says, pinching the end of her straw. "Police officers have been all over the place, trying to work things out and stop bootleg–but there's been a lot of corruption and–"

"Says the bull's daughter–"

Aoko swats at him. "Shut up. Where's everyone, anyway?"

It is late. The bar is thoroughly empty except for the four of them; even the band's estrada has been cleared of its instruments. Most of the chairs have been pulled up on the tables on the polished tables for the night, and only the counter's two pale lamps are switched on, casting extravagant shadows, deformed and twisting, onto the darkened walls.

"Off to attend the inauguration, the lot of 'em," Kaito grins. "The band wanted to go too, so we gave them half the day off. We're sorta closed right now. But we weren't going to toss out lovely ladies in the cold and the snow when they've come thus far, were we now?" A sharp, exaggerate nod at the umbrella in the corner.

"Akako-chan was the one who wanted to come," Aoko pipes up mischievously, with a sly glance at her friend, who is paying no attention whatsoever.

"Was she now."

"Shut up, you two."

Kaito laughs and turns the radio off. "These are no fun at all. C'mon, Aoko, let's dance." He tours the bar's counter and grabs her hand, dragging her off her high stool and between the tables to the bare stretch of parquet; she reluctantly follows.

"But there's no music–"

"Well Hakuba could sing."

"Dry up," retorts the bartender, not unkindly.

"Then we'll have to do without," Kaito laughs again, taking Aoko's hands firmly in his. "Charleston has its own rhythm. We don't need music­–we just have to follow the course of our heartbeats." He starts slowly, coaxing her into the steps to then speed her up, and laughs all her breath away. Aoko closes her eyes, and tries to focus on the steps.

One, two, three, four.

_Ba-bump ba-bump ba-bump ba-bump._

One, two, three, four.

Ba-bump-ba-bump-ba-bump-ba–

"You know, you shouldn't look like that when you're dancing," Kaito's voice says, from very far away, and her eyes fly open, concentrating on his blue own. He grins, unapologetically. "Well, with your flushed cheeks and parted lips–men can be horny bastards when they've gone down a few drinks, you know."

She bats her eyelashes at him. "You included?"

"Well–" he doesn't look one bit offended. That grin is starting to look very much like a leer. "–I did kiss you, after all."

"You were jazzed," she scolds, with a No Trouble, Officer kind of look. "And still are," she concedes.

"You tasted nice." He smiles reminiscently, thoroughly unabashed, proud as a cat who's been caught with its whiskers splattered with milk. "Soft and bitter. Very nice. I'm devastated, Aoko." The cat tilts his head to the side; Aoko is almost surprised not to glimpse a cat-ear twitching with refrained amusement through the black locks. "Usually dames last much less than two months before they fall for me."

"… it'll do you good to be resisted to for once," Aoko says, and prods him in the ribs. "I'm more worried about _them_, though."

_They_ were currently being stubborn. Seated at a table, smoking on one side, drinking on the other–both silent as death. Kaito heaves a deep, melodramatic sigh. "You break my heart. Really, truly. I open my wounded feelings to you and you tell me about–ow. Fine, fine, I'll figure something out."

"Last time your wondrous plan all but backfired–Valentine roses or not," she points out.

"I'll figure something out."

_-o-_

_March 17__th_

He does, and when it comes it implies locking Akako and Hakuba together in the cellar and coming back to check an hour later and save what can be saved.

"I still think you could have come up with something else," Aoko says, fifty-five minutes after they've closed the door onto the two stubborn lovers. "They'll have ripped each other to shreds. Or at least Akako will."

"You didn't have any trouble with sending Hakuba over to the cellar, did you?" Kaito asks, and lounges against the closed door with as much affected nonchalance as though it were against the counter of the most ritzy club in town.

She shrugs. "I just had to ask him to fetch a glass of _Chateau-Margaux_ for Akako-chan and he was off like a shot. I suppose if _you_ had asked him he would have seen through the prank immediately." A nod. A suspicious glance slides sideways. "How did _you_ get Akako to come over?"

A twitch, there, at the corner of his lips. "Not telling."

She narrows her eyes at him.

And Kaito must have warned half the bar about their proceedings, for when comes the time to open the door a small crowd is standing behind them, craning their necks. Kaito says something quickly, under his breath, something Japanese Aoko doesn't quite catch on but which makes laugh those who have heard it.

And when he opens the door, violently enough to surprise everyone in the bar, Hakuba and Akako spring apart abruptly, hair disarrayed to the point of chaos, lips bruised and limbs still entangled. There is, unsurprisingly, no blood to wash away, but embarrassment works just as well, and they both very thoroughly glare.

The crowd wolf-whistles and cheers, and Kaito laughs.

"And here we thought we'd have to fight you apart, guys–"

"Scram," Hakuba suggests fiercely, the painstaking arrangement of his clothes and hair now far gone; and leans in to grab the door's handle and wrench it shut. Aoko has hardly time to lock laughing eyes with Akako before the heavy wood span slams.

The mob boo-s and Kaito laughs, again. "C'mon, folks, Bank's closed for tonight. Free drinks at the bar for the first five who get there–"

They scatter like sparrows, and he grins at her in his childish way before following them, filling the five firsts' glasses at lightspeed before surrendering the bar to Jii-chan and jumping on the platform, snatching up his trumpet on the way.

The slow notes fill the crowded, dark underground room, then speed up sharply and make the couples on the dancefloor tatter over their own feet. Aoko squeezes in between them and inches toward her table and her drink. A rose is laid beside it, innocent and almost innuendo-free, and she grins at it as she sits down.

It's peaceful and calm for a while. The band plays. The couples dance, people talk in hushed whispers; the orange juice is stirring on her tongue and her chair enwraps her comfortably. Idly she wonders whether Akako and Hakuba can hear the jazz from down in the cellar.

Then it's all broken.

She doesn't really realize what has happened–what _is_ happening– until her glass is shattered and on the floor and her table is all but torn in two, and both her wrists in the iron grip of what looks like an oversized giant. The sound is deafening around her, no longer mellow and pleasing, until she understand it's actually silence, ear-splitting silence and the full bar on their feet.

The gargantuan chest before her screens the band platform from sight. The trumpet has stopped. She panics for a second.

"Nakamori," says a voice at her elbow, and if she didn't recognize the gorilla she recognizes _him_. He's one of the Nakamichi crowd–oh, god, he must have been after Akako and followed them here–irrelevantly, she thinks of Jii-chan, Jii-chan and the neat way his jackets are always pressed and _no–_

"Now, then, Nakamori-chan, be a good girl. Where's Koizumi?" the man on her right says, voice like a thousand needles on the swollen balloon of silence. Someone shouts up at the bar, then breaks off. "_Koizumi?"_

"Shut up," Aoko snarls. "Let–go!" she scuffles, aims a kick at the gorilla's genitals, bites the leader on the hand that was stroking her hair. The fingers tighten there and then down to her neck, and she winces, is thrown back against her chair, dizzy. Metallic blood trickle in her mouth, stains her teeth–her lip must be sliced–why isn't anybody doing _any_thing?

"Little bearcat," the man hisses close to her ear. "I'd keep you to _me_. _Where's Koizumi?"_

"Let g–"

–then the hands are gone and her wrists are free, stinging and red.

"I'd appreciate no trouble in my bar, gentlemen," says Kaito, voice light and calm and carefree, but when Aoko looks up, breathes, he has the man doubled over against the thrown table and twists his wrists in his back in a handcuffed grip. "If you've had too much to drink, I'd suggest continuing the party in the streets."

Four men are closing in, surrounding the gorilla–good god, when was _he_ thrown off-balance? It must have been awfully quick and she didn't see it at all–and, already, escorting him away. Kaito's eyes are hard-blue and cold.

"I should suggest leaving my costumers have their time without beefing around," Kaito adds, "_all_ of them. Don't you bother coming back," and releases him, so abruptly the man staggers on the spot and nearly makes a grab for Aoko.

"None of that." A hand on the collar, spinning him backwards and into awaiting arms. "Now scram. Escort the gentlemen out, Jii-chan, thank you."

Aoko from the chair, wants to protest, wants to shout, No, he'll hurt him, send someone else with them–but the man is gone already, Jii-chan is nowhere to be seen, and Kaito's hands are quick upon hers, helping her to her feet. "You alright?"

_It went so fast_, is her first thought, and then–_Akako._

"… yes?"

"Good." He's not smiling. "He hurt your wrists pretty bad. C'mon upstairs. I'll handle it." He pauses, takes her hand, fingers lacing together to coax her toward the staircase, gently. Hakuba and Akako emerge from the cellar corridor just as they reach it, flustered and breathless from running and petting.

"What's happen–"

She always stumbles on the steps.

First landing. He opens a door. "Wait–"

"Sit down," he gestures vaguely at the couch–living-room? "I'll be right back." He disappears past another door and must turn a tap or something–she hears the flowing gurgle of running water.

Living-room, probably. He mustn't use it much–a few books piled up on a three-footed table, pictures on the chest of drawers. That boy over there in that frame must be Kaito–even in black and white she can imagine the blue eyes and that wild dark hair is unmistakable. And that couple holding each other tight, the woman with a wide-brimmed hat, the moustached man–

"–getting a good toss-out now," Kaito says incoherently, and comes back into sight with water and soap and bandages. "You're not hurt someplace else?"

"Only to my pride," she says, with a small, tentative lick at her lower lip, the sensitive cut. "I should have been able to break free."

"Modern women," Kaito says, with a roll of the eyes and not quite meaning it, and there is a little more laughter to his voice. "I hate it when it happens," he adds later, when he's cleaned her wrists with a damp cloth and is slowly bandaging them.

"… does it happen often?"

"Not often. Sometimes. When they've had a little too much to drink… my god!" he says vehemently, "how I hate violence and fighting–" he grinds out. He's sitting at her feet, holding her hand between his and staring at it gloomily. "… tonight's were different, though."

"­–yes."

He cuts the gauze neatly and reaches out for her other hand, unclasping the tense fingers. His thumb brushes her knuckles, earning a shiver from her, and then does it again, and again, using soft pressure, a reassuring massage. "Koizumi?"

"Hmm. She used to hang out with the Nakamichi crowd for a good bit last year. Nakamichi was keen on her, and she liked it–but since she met Hakuba-kun, I don't think she went with them once. I suppose Nakamichi heard of the two of them and sent his men to–I never liked them. Akako said it was for kicks, but now the police thinks they're in the bootleg system–"

"They're not," he says, sternly. She looks down at him.

"No?"

"Nope. Quite a lot of dope running about there, though. We've had a few of them here last year–they're a bad lot. No inhibitions at all." He gives her hand a little flick of his fingers. "There. Done. I'll get the fuzz on my heels for tonight, I suppose," he adds absently, sits back on his heels, and brushes his clothes clean.

"… sorry about that."

"Nah. Nakamori-keibu would have come soon anyways–"

Aoko frowns. "Really?"

"–to check my stash, looking for giggle juice or whatnot and messing with all my good order." He grins, something of the usual grin. "I told you your father and I were old friends." There is something cheeky in his smiles, in the way he talks, in the way he probably sees some of her father's in her features. "Even before Prohibition he had this inkling I was up to something sinister. Dunno why. He just does."

"Come on," he adds later, taking her hand to lead downstairs. "My trumpet awaits. I'll play for you tonight–to make up for the disturbance.

Before he disappears he presses something cold and hard in her hand–her handcuffs–_her_ handcuffs, the ones her father gave her when she was a girl and young and eager, as a gift, laughing at her enthusiasm–and he's gone before she can even say she thought they were in her coat pocket all along.

And later still, twirling orange juice in a glass that was on the house and listening to the dark, sweet tunes of slow, sensual jazz, Aoko finds herself thinking, _I can deal with this._

_-o-_

_The jazz plays over them, a black cloak of winter and night falling onto their shoulders. The alcohol splays in their chests, elation and falling-down all in one piece that shapes around the heart. One step up two steps back and three and four and five and six._

_Seven, their breathing chant, their laughs and their air-less words. Eight. And all over again, we begin all over again._

_The partners dance._

_-o-_

_(In case some are confused by the lexical:_

_Bull–a FBI agent or law-enforcement officer._

_Bootleg–illegal contraband system during the Prohibition._

_March 4__th__, 1921 was the inauguration day of W. G. Harding as the 29__th__ president of the United States. _

_Jazzed–also spifflicated, canned, corked, tanked, primed, embalmed, owled, scrooched, lit, zozzled, plastered, potted, ossified, fried to the hat and probably tons of others–drunk._

_Chateau-Margaux–a very fine French wine._

_Bank's closed–no more kissing or making out tonight._

_Bearcat–a hot-blooded or fiery girl._

_Beef–a complaint or to complain._

_Giggle juice–another name for bootleg, among others._

_All this lexical, apart from the Chateau-Margaux reference, comes from the Internet Guide to Jazz Age Slang.)_

_-o-_

**Hmm. Quite a bit in there, though I don't think we'll see much more of the Nakamichi crowd. Next chapter–which, hopefully, should come in… two weeks?–will see Nakamori intruding. xD sounds like fun.**

**See ya all then. Have some cookies?**


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